


The Vultures Sing

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And What He Wants Is Making Sure His Prince Is Safe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, How Do I Tag, Hurt Faramir, Hurt/Comfort, King Aragorn Does What He Wants, M/M, Protective Aragorn, but not too badly, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 17:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21275261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: When Faramir ends up captured by enemies, it is up to Aragorn to help him.See notes for more info.





	The Vultures Sing

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how to describe that fic other than that it is something that should belong in a comic rather than in the realm of words. But I can't draw comic to save my life, so there we are. It is a tale told in flashes and the time shifts between then and now. 
> 
> Spoiler alert:  
Faramir is hurt but not too badly, the "attempted rape" tag is exactly what it says, _attempted_. Nothing graphical. 
> 
> Mermaid Sheenaz checked it out and declared it good enough. If there are any mistakes, they're mine. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

When Aragorn steps into the small hut, it is with a thunderous expression upon his face. He is not wearing his crown, his clothes seem black in the thick darkness around them, and yet he is as regal as if he was sitting on the throne. He sweeps the room with his eyes, and Faramir looks down, swallowing heavily. There is a strange feeling in his gut - not quite anxiety, not quite relief. It’s a mixture of joy and despair, a strange fear colliding with the readiness for a fight and the residual emptiness of its lack. 

“Out.” The King’s voice rings in the stillness surrounding them, and it takes the soldiers - the _ Rangers _ \- a moment to process this one simple word. Once the time for thinking is done, they step out without a word of comment, faces blank and eyes focused. Only Velen pauses, stopped as he is by Aragorn’s fingers clutching his arm.  
“Come and get me should any trouble arise.” 

-&-

_ Five men were sitting around a campfire, their laughing hiccups carrying on deep into the forest. The night was cold and the rain was falling down in a constant chilly drizzle, the ferocity of it enough to force the campers to put a makeshift roof of leaves over the fire. They were huddled together for warmth, drinking ale and making merry, their nightwatch forgotten completely. _

_ When shadows slithered up behind them, a glint of hard steel bright red in the flames, they didn’t even have the time to shout out a warning to their companions hunting in the forest. _

-&-

As soon as the guard is out - for it is the Royal Guard now, even if consisting of Rangers rather than Soldiers of Gondor - Aragorn’s face changes. A certain kind of softness flashes in those angular shapes, eyes dark but gentle, much more like the beloved and revered King they all know. A shadow lingers still, but it’s subdued by the eerie quietness. He steps forward slowly, directing his steps to a small table pushed into the corner of the hut. Faramir watches him through hair falling into his eyes - his neck hurts too much to tilt his head up yet, and even if it didn’t, he wouldn’t be sure that he would have the strength required to stand at attention like a good captain should. 

Aragorn doesn’t seem to pay it any attention, though, busying himself with a bowl of water and a clean-looking rag. Faramir wants to protest, knowing that the healer is talking through his King now, that Elessar has stepped aside and in his place Estel reigns. 

He doesn’t seem to be able to form words. When he concentrates hard enough, he can almost - _ almost _ \- put the right syllables together, but even then, his voice stops cooperating, getting stuck in his throat like a steed in deep mud. 

Aragorn is silent, too. He brings the items to the cot, then sits himself right next to Faramir, settling the bowl between them. With slow moves, practiced by years of healing and aiding his fellow Rangers, the King reaches out and picks up one of Faramir’s hands. 

His fingers are warm and steady when he wets the cloth and presses it softly to Faramir’s knuckles, cleaning each wound of dirt and blood. 

-&-

_ Blood was dripping down the side of his face - a tiny, crimson river, sourcing from a shallow cut right above his eyebrow. The maker of it, the one who had beaten him, was leering dangerously, all humanity forgotten… Or had he ever had even a shred of it? _

_ Faramir wasn’t sure - couldn’t be sure - not with the way the man’s eyes kept flashing at him in the dark, not with how his fingers clawed at Faramir’s clothes. _

_ The Prince fought teeth and nails, busting open his knuckles until they were scarlet, too, aching and dirty from the ground he had been thrown upon. A blow to his head put him on his knees permanently, a kick to his side ensured that he stayed in position. _

_ Someone was laughing nearby, but Faramir couldn’t see who it was - the blood flowing into his eyes obscured his view. He wasn’t overly concerned about his head, though. He had a thick skull, _ _ as evidenced by their early-childhood roughhousing with Boromir__. _ _ These wounds always bled the worst, but they were not dangerous… _

_ Kneeling vulnerable on the ground was. _

_ The prince tried to wipe the blood out of his eye, but he couldn’t spare a hand - he was too busy trying to stop himself from falling face-first into the dirt. _

_ There were fingers tugging at his belt, insistent but ineffective, their progress stopped by the sturdy belt he had received all those months ago from Gimli. With a displeased growl, the man behind him pushed him down, then leaned above him. When teeth bit into his shoulder, Faramir could taste copper on his own tongue. _

-&-

Their mutual silence is getting to him, and the Prince bites his tongue, hoping the pain will force the muscle back to life. It is a surprise when Aragorn speaks first, his voice quiet and carefully calm.  
“I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner…” His murmur carries on around them, deafening in the almost-empty room. Faramir frowns, but the words fail him yet again. Instead, he watches Aragorn’s progress numbly. 

The King has cleaned both of his hands and is now focusing all his powers on the cut eyebrow. There is desolation hiding inside his eyes, and Faramir hates it. He is fine, he’s had worse before. He tries to tell Aragorn as much, but the King doesn’t listen to him. He never does when there is blood present and it’s attested to be Faramir’s. Estel is always in charge then, and Estel doesn’t talk a lot, tuning silently into the fine workings of the human body, manipulating Elvish magic like a painter would colors on an empty canvas… 

Though maybe not empty… _ torn _ perhaps, needing repair from skilled hands under the careful attention of the Master Maker. 

“Anduin’s waters are troubled,” Aragorn goes on, his gaze stuck on the cut, straying down and following it with visible dread. “We couldn’t get through…” 

This is not the only thing he couldn’t get through. Tearing his eyes away from the crimson trickle on the side of Faramir’s face seems every bit as difficult. 

“‘Tis alright…” the Prince says, trying to calm his friend as much as himself. Aragorn doesn’t show any signs of hearing him. 

“I tried to swim through, but Halbarad pulled me back…”  
“My King…”  
“We could have gone around, over the Troll Bridge…”  
“My Lord…”  
“I know it has not been repaired yet, but maybe if we have left horses on the shore…”  
“Aragorn.” 

The King falls silent, biting down on his lip, his eyes meeting Faramir’s gaze. The Prince watches them for a moment, before they skitter to the side again, inevitably drawn towards the wound. When the cloth is pressed to the cut gently, Faramir allows himself a small hiss. 

-&-

_ Raegon was too absorbed in the red-haired man to notice a slight shift of his surroundings. A shadow crept up behind him, silent and menacing, clutching a blade. Soundlessly, cold steel slashed through the air and settled at his throat, the shadow solidifying against Raegon’s back. _

_ He froze, the sharp edge pressing against his windpipe as threatening as it was confusing. _

_ “We’re going to take a walk now,” a voice sneered - right into his ear - and Raegon was too paralyzed to even nod. He gave a small whimper and, prompted by a forceful tug on the back of his cloak, he straightened and stood up, all the time trying hard not to swallow, lest the blade opened his neck. _

_ The walk, as it turned out, wasn’t long at all. Barely a couple of steps, leading them from behind the shack and onto the little clearing where the campfire was. He couldn’t really see anything - his hair shielded most of his face and obscured the view, bent as he was, held down by a strong hand clawed in his clothes and the blade staying menacingly close to his throat still. _

_ Once the fire was near enough for him to feel the heat of it, they stopped unexpectedly. There was a push that shoved him down to the ground, and Raegon rolled over hurriedly, not keen on staying vulnerable in the face of danger. _

-&-

It takes a few swipes, but finally, the blood is being washed away and in its place, a raw wound opens. Aragorn seems bent on taking out some sort of debris out of it and so, with another hiss, Faramir jerks away. The wince on his face must show the extent of his pain, for the King stops all his movements and just sits there, eyes as keen as a hawk’s, fingers paused in their healing quest. 

The Prince pulls away too sharply, and the wound on his shoulder makes itself known with a dull throb. On instinct, Faramir rolls his limb, testing the range of movements, intent on assuring his friend that it is nothing serious. He realizes - too late - that Aragorn’s senses have picked up the movement, as well as the reason for it. His wince deepens, one hand coming up to rub at the sore spot. 

Is it a wound if there is no blood? 

The King doesn’t seem to care, the healer inside him coming to the front again, tugging at Faramir’s collar slowly. The wound is revealed - nothing but a painful bruise - but Aragorn’s eyes widen nevertheless. He touches the center of the dark circle with tender fingertips, his teeth clenching. 

“Did we come too late?” He asks in a whisper, the words close to rattling out of him. Faramir is so taken aback by the rawness of emotions whirling right under that carefully maintained facade, that he falls silent for a long moment. It doesn’t seem like the King is going to wait for his answer, though. Instead, those same gentle fingers push the collar even more to the side, before they slip over the bruise, fitting themselves neatly on Faramir’s skin. 

A moment, and the touch heats up, a thunder-like energy flowing through them. The Prince’s shoulder answers with a seize, until it settles, muscles relaxing gradually. The pain ebbs away as the burning intensifies, and Faramir pulls away slightly, biting his lip to stop a hiss from escaping. 

When Aragorn’s palm lifts away from the bruise finally, there isn’t a mark left, just smooth, pale flesh, almost glowing in the soft light of the campfire falling through the open window behind them. 

-&-

_ Raegon lifted his gaze slowly, fear gnawing at him. The man who had shoved him to the ground was standing before him, clad in a long, hooded cloak. His face was in the shadows, only the tip of his nose visible, and _ _ his sole presence vibrated with anger so vivid he seemed to be glowing in the slowly burning fire. _

_ Another dark shape appeared and, bit by bit, Raegon realized that they weren’t alone. Or rather that he was very much alone, for a quick glance to his side told him that all his friends were dead, their blood flooding the earth underneath. Feeling panic grasping his nerves, he looked back at the hooded figures - five of them now - trying not to let his fear show. _

_ One of the men leaned in and listened to their commander, giving a quick nod once the instructions were given, quickly disappearing behind the house Raegon had been dragged from. The one who had dragged him there - the supposed chieftain of the band - started an unhurried walk into his direction. _

_ A queasy feeling raising up in his stomach, he gripped his trusted dagger, waiting for the occasion to draw it. When it presented itself finally, he did not hesitate, thrusting the blade in front of him, hoping to intimidate his opponent. _

_ The commander paused, inclined his head to the side and scoffed, walking slowly forwards again. When he was close enough to Raegon to get nicked by the very tip of his blade, he stopped yet again. _  
_ “Where is the rest of your people?” He asked. His voice, even if low, carried in the sudden stillness around them. _ _  
“I’ll be dead before I tell you!” Raegon sneered back, earning a shake of a hooded head when he swished his blade through the air. _

_ One second he was holding it, next, the dagger was out of his hand, skittering away from him through wet leaves, the weight of a sword drawn too quickly to be seen in the half-darkness resting upon his throat. He couldn’t help but wince when his hand started to hurt unexpectedly, a trickle of warmth dripping from the empty palm and splashing on the ground. _

_ “You are a dead man already. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll spare you the agony.” There was hardness in those words, a certainty as sure as Anor crawling on the sky every morning. Raegon gritted his teeth. _  
_ “You cannot hurt me!” He cried desperately. “I was given high orders!” _  
_ “Orders?” The hooded man asked incredulously. _ _  
“Aye! I was! By the King himself!” _

_ Before he knew what had happened, he was shoved onto his back, the stranger pinning him to the ground. The sword he had gripped earlier had fallen to the side, lying forgotten between dead leaves, a much shorter blade glinting dangerously in his hand. Raegon bit his tongue not to scream from fear. _

_ “King’s orders, you say?” The man asked, sounding thoughtful. _ _ “That is funny, for I don’t remember giving them.” _

_ Keeping him immobilized with the curved edge of the dagger, the stranger used his free hand to throw off his hood. _

_ This time, Raegon screamed. _

-&-

It is only by the time Aragorn is halfway done with healing a large bruise forming on Faramir’s side when the Prince finally finds his voice. He is not sure whether it is the pain he’s trying to distract himself from, or if it’s the way the King sits suspiciously still in front of him. 

Faramir has his head pressed into Aragorn’s shoulder - for comfort more than any physical support - and he has noticed the change in his friend’s body. Carefully orchestrated movements and precise fingertips have morphed into jerky sweeps and twitching hands, and when Aragorn presses against the center of the bruise, Faramir lets out a groan of pain. 

“I’m sorry,” the King murmurs apologetically, but his voice is wet, and Faramir straightens up from his slumped position, his gaze focused on him. Aragorn sits there completely still, save for the hand that is still resting under Faramir’s shirt, fingers rubbing soothing circles over the sore skin.  
“Aragorn,” Faramir says, _ pleads, _ hoping the man will look at him. When the King finally does, his eyes are shining with tears, trails of them marking paths of silver flowing down his cheeks, and the Prince can’t stop himself from leaning forward and pressing as close as he possibly can. 

“Stay still,” the King rasps, even when his own arms contradict him, wrapping around Faramir and pulling him closer, crushing him against his chest as if he could solder them together somehow. “Your ribs are broken.”  
“You were not too late.” 

It is the only thing Faramir whispers, but it is everything Aragorn wanted to hear. With a sigh that sounds almost painful, he finally relaxes. 

-&-

_ Nobody moved when Aragorn sneered at the man, angered beyond belief. _

_ Nobody even twitched when the blade stabbed into the man’s crotch and twisted around. _

_ Nobody paid it any mind when Aragorn sank the same blade into the man’s heart _ _ and left it there. _

_ “Take care of the bodies,” the King commanded, raising to his feet and walking away to find Halbarad. He had told his friend to take Faramir inside the shack and give him some dry clothes. He could only hope that they had made it on time. _

_ A curt nod is all he could afford when Halbarad strode out of the shack, a grim expression marring his features. _  
_ “How is he?” Aragorn asked, stepping up to him. _ _  
“Cold and wounded, but alive.” _

_ The King let the words sink in, revelling in the last one. _

_ Alive. _

_ “Make camp. We shall stay here until the waters settle down,” he ordered, then directed his steps to the shack, pausing right before the door. _  
_ “Halbarad?” _  
_“Yes?” _  
_ “Keep attentive watch tonight. There were at least five more of them.” _

_ With that, Aragorn pushed the door open. _

-&-

“Don’t,” Faramir hisses out, trying to pull away, but strong hands keep him in place. “You’ll overtask yourself.”  
“It is of no consequence,” Aragorn replies, before he places his hand back on Faramir’s side. With a sigh, the Prince relents, sagging against him with a groan when the warmth spreading outwards from Aragorn’s palm scrapes at his nerves, making them feel raw. 

He knows well that his friend shouldn’t be doing this, as well as he is sure Aragorn knows that, too. Herbs and healing salves are one thing, but giving your own life energy to mend broken bones? It usually leaves the King exhausted, and they have only tried it so far with two broken fingers and a few minor cuts. It has been nothing like the deep bruise and at least four broken ribs. 

“I’m sorry,” Aragorn whispers yet again when Faramir hisses, his very bones throbbing with the energy swirling around them.  
“‘Tis alright, I’ve had worse.” He tries - and fails - to stop his King worrying. Aragorn keeps on going until the rain stops falling at last.

Afterwards, he is too exhausted to even make it to bed, so Faramir has to drag him there, supporting his every step lest he tip over and fall. Once he is resting comfortably - the small cot barely long enough to fit him - the Prince tries to raise. He intends to go out and see if there isn’t any trouble, but Aragorn’s fingers still clutching his wrist interrupt his plans. 

He looks up, surprised to see his King’s eyes still open, watching him calmly. There is a softness in them, a warmth that feels more welcoming than the campfire outside right now, and Faramir lets himself be tugged down. He reckons he can let himself rest for now, especially that his whole body is still fairly in pain and moving around _ hurts. _

In the span of a few moments, they are both wrapped in Aragorn’s cloak, pressed together from head to toe, and the Prince closes his eyes with a weary sigh. There is an answering inhale coming from Aragorn, and three words chase it almost silently, balanced on the edge of sleep.  
“I love you.” 

They are so exhausted that neither knows who utters the admission and who answers it. But, they are in agreement, and so the night is filled with gentle dreams and a shared sense of safety. 

In the morning, they wake up to Anor’s light falling right onto their faces, making them smile softly, and Faramir repeats the words he has longed to hear for months now. Words he’s heard just last night. Captivated, Aragorn’s eyes shine brighter than the sun for the rest of the morning. 


End file.
